Eternal Flame ~ A Pemberley Fairy Tale

Chapter Eleven - part 2

Jane Eyre fell to the linoleum, creasing the pages, but Liz paid it no mind as she replayed William’s words. She hadn’t been asleep so knew it was no dream when Mrs Ellis had asked about his wife.

Her mind spun as she recalled their previous conversations. He’d spoken about his wife’s favourite part of the garden, mentioned them being together briefly and how hard it had been for him to deal with. She’d assumed he meant her death, but now it sounded like she wasn’t dead at all.

Liz climbed out of the bath and draped a towel around her shoulders, wrapping it tight as though she could hold in her dismay. She pulled out the bath plug and sat on the toilet lid, staring into the whirlpool as the water emptied down the drain. Something tickled her nose and she scratched it, leaving a tear on her fingertip.

She dried herself, only half paying attention to what she was doing, and threw on her clothes. As she walked back to her room, Liz noticed that the muscles in her legs didn’t feel as heavy as they had before. William might not have been honest about his marital status but at least he’d been truthful about the efficiency of Mrs Reynolds’ home remedy.

Once inside, Liz slumped with her back against the bedroom door, trying to keep out the reality beyond. She slid down, collapsing on the floor as her tears returned afresh. Why? Why would William ask her to remain at Pemberley when he had a wife living there?

Liz wondered what reason William would have for hiding her. Perhaps Mrs Bingley suffered from some kind of sickness and he needed to keep her away from visitors, but then why did he act as though his wife didn’t exist? She glanced down at her copy of Jane Eyre, half sticking out of her wash bag. Was Mrs Bingley crazy, like Mr. Rochester’s wife; someone they needed to restrain for her own good?

She should have realised William and Pemberley were too good to be true. Handsome princes always turned back to frogs in the end.

Liz pressed her lips together, dragging a hand down her damp cheeks as she half-crawled, half-stumbled across the room to collapse on her bed. Perhaps William had invited her to stay at Pemberley because Mrs Bingley was bedridden or disabled; his situation leaving him starved of companionship or conversation.

Maybe he did love her?

No. It didn’t matter how many excuses she offered for his behaviour. It couldn’t change anything. Liz punched her pillow, desperate to release the frustrated jumble of emotions that tugged and pinched inside her chest. She’d been naïve and ignorant, quick to adore the first man who had shown her the slightest particle of affection. Liz had given her heart too freely, not realising the pain she would have to endure when he broke it in two and tossed it on the ground.

She would have to find a way to switch off her feelings for William, if it was possible, because she could never consent to an affair with a married man, particularly one who wasn’t honest about his true situation.

Despite her desolation, her mind continued to dwell on the more curious half of the problem, picking at the scant clues like a bird digging for worms. Where were they keeping Mrs Bingley? And why had she never seen or heard anything that suggested another person lived in the house? William had ordered her taken her upstairs, so she must be somewhere on the second floor, but Liz had already seen the main rooms up there and there had been no sign of anyone living in them. Perhaps he’d missed a room and her attention had been too focussed on him to notice the omission. She revisited each moment of their time spent upstairs, recalling the dust, the lack of pictures and the little table they’d rescued.

Her eye drifted to the corner of her room where that same table now stood. The fine dark grain and shimmering inlays called to her. Now clean and polished, the rich chestnut gleamed, making the small item one of the loveliest pieces of furniture Liz had ever seen.